


from dusk till dawn

by Salambo06 (orphan_account)



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: ALL THE FLUFF, December ficlets, Declaration of Love, Established Relationship, Fluff, Kissing, M/M, Mistletoe, Sexy Times, and all the xmas prompt you can think of, prompts, snuggle
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-30
Updated: 2017-12-10
Packaged: 2019-02-08 02:13:03
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 10
Words: 5,172
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12854535
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/Salambo06
Summary: Sherlock is late for their Christmas dinner. John makes sure they find a way to make it all right again.





	1. Bundled up

**Author's Note:**

> Here I am with another xmas fic, and this time throughout December. I've taken the prompt from the Sherlock December Ficlets list, and I'll be posting them on my tumblr too. They'll all be around 500 words each.
> 
> Thank you to Heather and xtina for the help with this story!
> 
> Merry Christmas to all of of you,  
> Pauline.
> 
>  
> 
> EDIT: I'm marking this work as complete for now, I know it should have been 31 chapters, but life has its way of getting in your way. I'll maybe come back to this fic and finish it, but the last chapter is a good end for now. Thank you for all your kudos and comments on this story <3

Sherlock opens the front door quickly, the freezing cold from the silent, white streets outside still making his every cell shiver. He rubs his hands together firmly, letting the welcoming warmth settle deep in his bones, and quietly closes the door behind him. He can hear John moving upstairs, going back and forth from the kitchen to the living room a few times before stopping at his chair. Sherlock deduces he's either cleaning after a late dinner alone in front of the telly, or simply pacing around while waiting for him to come home.

The thing is, Sherlock is late, very late, and it’s Christmas day. He didn't expect the case to take this long, or the thief to be that clever, and by the time he stopped to check his watch, dinner time had come and gone. He had of course texted John to reassure him everything was alright and that he was on his way home but, still, he had missed Christmas dinner, and now he has no idea in which state of mind he is going to find John in.

Refusing to linger any longer downstairs, he climbs the stairs quickly, and after another deep inhale, pushes the door open. As expected, John is sitting on his chair and he turns to face him immediately. "Your nose is red."

Sherlock smiles, untying his scarf slowly. "It's snowing."

"I've noticed, yes," John replies, standing up and walking to him. "I've been waiting for you."

"I know," Sherlock breathes, letting John slide both hands up his chest and to his shoulders, removing his coat slowly. "I never imagined it would be an eight when Lestrade called, he's the one who assured me it wouldn't take long, so really, he's the one to blame here."

"You're late," John says, making it clear he won't accept any excuses.

Sherlock sighs, eyes fluttering closed as one of John's fingers brushes his jaw. "I'm sorry. I know you had plans for tonight."

"It's all right," John replies, and Sherlock looks back at him, surprised to see him smiling. "You're here now."

Sherlock nods, not trusting his voice to say anything, and he reaches for John's hand, still on his neck, squeezing. Returning John's smile, he breathes out slowly, finding it hard not to be kissing those lips all of a sudden. John had been talking about this evening for days, weeks even, and Sherlock had even found himself looking forward to a quiet, warm Christmas at home.

"I really am sorry, John," he whispers, kissing John's knuckles gently.

"You can make it up to me," John says, glancing toward the sofa, and Sherlock finally notices the two duvets and few pillows there. "That was supposed to be for after dinner, but we could still-"

"Yes," Sherlock cuts him off, this time leaning in for a soft press of lips, and finding himself shivering into the touch.

"Alright then," John smiles against his lips, walking them backwards to the sofa. "Let's get bundled up."


	2. Wish list

The flat is quiet as John settles them both down on the sofa.

He should have known today wasn’t going to go as planned. A life with Sherlock Holmes will always be full of surprises, of carefully prepared dinners that go uneaten and a silent flat on Christmas night. In all honesty, John wouldn’t change a thing. Not a single thing. It doesn’t matter how long he waited by the window, worriedly fidgeting with his phone until he finally received the text he’d been waiting for all evening. It doesn’t matter that a silly christmas movie kept him company, his plate on his knees while listening for the rare sound of cars passing down the street.

None of it mattered because John is madly in love with this brilliant, beautiful, mad man currently trying to kiss him while attempting to wrap himself entirely around him at the same time. John wouldn't trade anything in the world for a moment like this one, laughing into Sherlock's mouth when one elbow, a knee or a hand hits the wrong place, only making the both of them chuckle more. John only wants to be able to feel Sherlock's pliant body pressed against him for all the nights to come; he wants to kiss him, sweet and deep, until they're both shaking and desperate for air. He wants to be able to trail his fingers through his curls and down his nape, eliciting the most sensual sounds from Sherlock's throat and swallowing them down with yet another kiss.

_This._

This is exactly what John wants to wish for each Christmas. Whether they're out in the cold, solving crimes or chasing after thieves. Whether they're home, snuggled against each other or busy celebrating with friends and family. Whether they're miles away from home and just wrapped around each other in bed. John's wish list only consists of moments like this, stolen away from time and belonging to them only.

And all the Christmases they spent alone before don’t matter, the long nights and even longer days before this one don’t matter. How much he had once hoped for this, wished for this, ached for this doesn’t matter. The ghosts of dried tears and silent cries don’t matter. It all ended with one kiss, still ends with every new one, and tonight they're once again forgetting it all. Leaving it behind, erasing it from their memories only to give room for more of this, more touches, more whispers, more kisses and tender, quiet promises for more.

He smiles into another of Sherlock's kisses, letting all that's rushing through his head pour into his touch and the feeling of Sherlock holding him closer. And if there are days when John wakes up wondering what he ever did to deserve feeling this ridiculously happy all the time, he only wants to remember a long Christmas evening waiting for the only person that really mattered to come home, cheeks and nose red with cold and something bright dancing in his eyes.


	3. All dressed up

Sherlock sneaks his hand under John’s shirt and jumper slowly, enjoying the small shivers running through John’s body as he does so, and he smiles against the soft skin of his neck. He loves John like this. No, he adores John like this. He can still remember in vivid detail the first morning they woke up together, how John’s chest had felt underneath his hand, his steady heartbeat filling both the room and Sherlock’s head. He had craved quiet mornings like this one for so long that it had taken him a full minute to accept it truly was happening. Then John had woken up and moans and laughter had filled the air.

But now, Sherlock has John close, every inch of their bodies pressed together and if he focuses long enough, he can almost feel the two of them melting into one.

“Do you remember last Christmas?” John suddenly asks, his voice quiet in the already silent room.

“A disaster,” Sherlock replies, finding himself smiling at the memories. “Even this one is better compared to that stupid party.”

“I quite like this Christmas,” John protests, one finger brushing over Sherlock’s pulse point just below his ear. Sherlock hums happily, leaning into the touch. “But, no matter what you say, I loved that party.”

“Those jumpers Lestrade made us wear were hideous, John,” Sherlock asserts, pulling away just enough to look back at him. “Mine had a giant deer on the front, the nose was sticking out, John.”

“Are you saying you found me hideous, too?”

Sherlock rolls his eyes, sighing, “You were breathtakingly handsome, John, as always.” And he barely has the time to continue when two full lips crash against his in a sudden, deep kiss that leaves him panting.

“I almost kissed you twice that night,” John says, too quickly and out of breath. “Even if we weren’t this yet, I barely stopped myself both times. You looked ridiculous with that jumper, and even more ridiculous glaring at everyone who dared to comment on it or just look at you, and I could have kissed you again and again and again.”

“John,” Sherlock breathes, a rush of love, care, and lust for this extraordinary man pressed against him making it harder and harder to properly function.

“I loved you, that night, all dressed up and standing under every mistletoe in Greg’s bloody flat,” John continues, sounding both all too serious and sad at the same time. “It was as if you were asking for it, every bloody person in that flat watching you stand there. I practically punched two who dared to get too close.”

“I wouldn’t have minded,” Sherlock whispers, holding on tightly to John’s back. “The punching. Or the kissing.”

“I know,” John smiles, a private, bright smile that makes all of Sherlock want him even more.

“You can kiss me now,” Sherlock continues, already seeking John’s mouth with his own. “Anytime. Every time.”

“Yes,” John murmurs as he does just that, and Sherlock loves him, loves him, loves him.


	4. Snowball fight

“Tell me something,” John says after another long minute of kissing the smiles off each other’s lips. Sherlock makes a questioning sound, having returned to his place, nuzzled against John’s neck. “Something you still haven’t told me,” John continues, shivering at yet another brush of Sherlock’s fingers against his bare skin.

“Why?”

“Just indulge me, please,” John smiles, nose buried in Sherlock’s curls, and this strange sensation that it is all too perfect, and it could all so very easily slip away creeping up on him. “I want to know everything about you,” he murmurs, closing his eyes as he wills the feeling away. “It’s not fair that I got to meet you so late.”

“I thought we’ve established to leave the past where it belongs,” Sherlock replies, lying entirely still, and John hates it.

“We did, yes” he says, kissing the top of Sherlock’s head softly. “I’d just like to know, let’s say, your best Christmas memory as a child?”

He feels Sherlock relax a little at that, one finger now brushing over the edge of his trousers’ waistband. Repressing another shiver, John waits patiently, giving Sherlock the chance to actually answer or just let the silence swallow his question. But he can’t help but smile when he feels Sherlock breathe in deeply, his lips moving against his neck long before his voice fills the room.

“I was eight,” Sherlock begins, his eyelashes tickling John’s neck as he talks. “Mummy was supposed to be out of town for the holidays, some conference about one of her books, but she surprised us at the last minute. Dad was building the fire, and Mycroft was actually taking interest in my latest experiment. I remember that it took a whole minute to realise he wasn’t listening anymore, and when I turned around, there she was.”

Sherlock stops, and John feels him shudder in his arms. He holds him tighter, shifting just enough to leave a gentle kiss on his temple, lingering there for a long moment.

“I felt so happy, seeing her in our home when I had convinced myself she wouldn’t be there at all,” Sherlock finally continues, his voice barely a whisper. “I know it’s stupid, but we had spent all of our Christmases together before that, and the idea of her not being  _ there _ was awful.”

“I wish I had known you then,” John whispers back. “I would have made sure you knew there’s nothing stupid in loving your mother. Even now.”

Sherlock inhales sharply at that before letting out a small chuckle, “I’m sure she’d be pleased to hear you.”

“So that was your happiest Christmas,” John smiles, having no trouble picturing a younger Sherlock rushing to his mother’s arms.

“Yes,” Sherlock replies, and John can feel his own smile against his neck. “We had a snowball fight. Mycroft was flat on the ground by the end of it. I, obviously, came out victorious.”

“Obviously,” John laughs, and he’s surprised when Sherlock suddenly pulls away, looking intensely at him. “What?”

“That was my happiest Christmas,” Sherlock says, “until now. This is by far much more brilliant.”

“What? Lying on a sofa and doing nothing?” John mocks, his entire chest expanding with something so very warm.

“Yes,” Sherlock smiles that bright, incandescent smile of his. “Brilliant.”


	5. Mistletoe

“You’re brilliant,” John grins, tongue darting out to wet his lower lip and Sherlock finds himself following the movement with intense precision. It still amazes him to be able to do just that and not have to look away, fearing John might notice. He can still remember the first few days of their relationship, and how many times John had to reassure him that it was all right, absolutely lovely in fact. “And now you’re staring.”

“You don’t mind,” Sherlock replies, grinning back.

“I really don’t,” John says softly, eyes fluttering closed as he sighs happily. 

Sherlock continues to stare, having no other choice really when John is right there, so close and trusting, and so very happy. Sherlock can read it all, in the wrinkles around his eyes and the curve of his lips. In this very moment, John Watson is happy, and there’s nothing Sherlock wouldn’t do to keep it this way. 

“Get up,” he declares, already straightening up himself. 

John frowns at him, “What are you doing?”

“Come on,” Sherlock replies, using both arms to pull John up, “There’s somewhere we need to go.”

“Now?” John asks, watching him walk to the door, still sitting on the sofa. 

“Obviously,” Sherlock replies, grabbing his scarf and nodding toward the door. 

John remains still for another second before getting to his feet, sighing, “Where are we going, then?”

Sherlock doesn’t reply, walking out of the flat and dragging John by the hand with him. They descend the stairs quickly, the freezing cold making them both gasp when Sherlock opens the front door. 

“Out?” John asks, already shivering. “We should get our coats.”

“No need,” Sherlock points out, stopping on the first step and looking up.

Barely a second passes before he hears John’s quiet exhale, “Oh.”

“You said you wanted to kiss me under the mistletoe last year,” Sherlock explains, meeting John’s eyes again and finding them fixed on him.

“I did,” John replies, his voice warming up Sherlock’s body.

“You can do it now.”

Sherlock doesn’t have to wait long before John is taking a step closer, slowly rising himself to his tiptoes and threading one hand into his curls, “I’ve thought about this many, many times, Sherlock Holmes.”

Sherlock moans quietly, eyes closing, and his entire body shudders when John’s lips finally brush his, ever so slowly. A ghost of a kiss that makes all of Sherlock crave more. But he remains still, letting John fulfill this fantasy, and at the first touch of tongue, he finds himself moaning again. He feels John’s smile against his lips, just as he pulls away, “Have you?”

It takes a rather long time for Sherlock to understand the question. “Yes,” he breathes.

“Good,” John replies, crashing their mouths together again in a kiss so different from the first one that it makes Sherlock’s legs buckle. He holds on tightly to John’s jumper, stealing all of his warmth as he presses their bodies close.

He’s not sure how long they remain there, kissing on the porch with the silent, white streets being the only witness of their adventurous hands and desperate whimpers, but Sherlock realises he could easily never move again, and just live inside this bright, breathtaking moment.


	6. Cold

A sudden group of people laughing and turning down the street make them both jump, and John realises he had backed Sherlock up against the wall. He pulls away, just enough that he’s now pants against Sherlock’s lips. They both remain silent, eyes closed and breath short, until the laughter dies off as the group disappears into another silent street. Another beat passes before John bursts into giggles, the freezing air creeping under his trousers and jumper, and really, what the bloody hell are they still doing out here?

“My madman,” he manages to say between two laughs, and he opens his eyes to find Sherlock staring at him with something close to admiration in his eyes. “I love you.”

Sherlock’s sharp inhale resonates into the quiet street, and John can’t help but lean in again for a much softer kiss this time. He feels Sherlock smile and he traces the lines around his eyes slowly, reading in each and everyone of them everything Sherlock isn’t speaking out loud. 

“Let’s get back inside before we both freeze,” he whispers, knowing they really should move but finding it suddenly hard to do so. 

“You’re the one preventing me from moving,” Sherlock points out, looking around them. 

“Are you complaining?”

Sherlock rolls his eyes, pressing them closer together with a hand on John’s arse, “Not at all.”

“Neither am I,” John breathes, so very close to Sherlock’s ear, enjoying the goosebumps rising on his neck. “But I happen to have a pretty good idea on how we could warm up.”

“Oh,” Sherlock gasps, “do you?”

“Yes,” John murmurs, nodding and kissing the soft patch of skin right behind Sherlock’s ear. “Can’t you deduce it?” Sherlock sighs, loudly, almost close to a moan, and John can’t help but giggle again. He kisses his way up, along Sherlock jaw and stops on his chin. “Can’t you?” 

“You know perfectly well it’s always harder when you’re involved,” Sherlock replies, and John doesn’t need to look up to know he has his eyes closed, a deep frown creasing his forehead as he tries to take back control over his thoughts and body.

“I know.”

“You love it.”

“God help me I do,” John says, grinning. “But not as much as I love hearing you deduce me.”

It takes another long second before Sherlock finally says, “It can’t be a fire, will take too long and you would have already prepared everything.”

“True,” John replies, shifting to kiss Sherlock’s lower lip. “But definitely an idea for later.”

“Could be our bed,” Sherlock continues, “naked and sharing body heat.”

John pulls away, desire pooling down his abdomen at the mere idea of doing just that, “No. But later. For sure.”

Sherlock searches his face for a long moment before breathing a quiet  _ oh _ , and John smiles. “Got it.”

“A bath,” Sherlock says, already moving to get inside.

“I knew you’d love it,” John replies, letting Sherlock drag him back into the hall and up the stairs quickly.

“You have the most brilliant ideas, John!”


	7. Christmas cards

Sherlock climbs the stairs two by two, John’s hand still in his, and he closes the door behind them as soon as they're back inside the flat. John is still laughing and Sherlock has to kiss the sound from his lips, really _has to._ They end up kissing for a long time, all thoughts of warming up going in a very different direction than just a bath, and when John pulls away, his eyes are dark with desire.

“Let me get that bath ready,” he pants, one hand sliding down Sherlock’s back and onto his arse. “You can take care of losing all...this,” he grins, tugging on his shirt, and Sherlock all but groans. “I'll be waiting,” John adds before walking to the bathroom.

Sherlock remains standing there for a long moment, closing his eyes as he feels the first pangs of arousal low in his abdomen. He breathes in and out slowly, one finger already unbuttoning his shirt, and just as he's letting it fall off his shoulders, he notices the envelope on his chair.

He hesitates only a second before grabbing it. John surely had planned for him to read it anyway, so now or later, it really doesn't matter. Glancing toward where John has just disappeared, Sherlock sits down half naked on his chair, and reads,

 

_ Sherlock, _

_ I know you said Christmas cards are stupid and pointless, but I'm writing you this one anyway. You can say it's more of a letter if you want, but still, I’m writing this to wish you a merry Christmas. _

_ I have no doubt this one is going to be a very special one, the first we spend together as a couple. I am still amazed at the mere possibility of writing this down. You and I, a couple. Do you know how much I've hoped I'd one day be writing a letter like this one? _

_ I love you, Sherlock. I am so desperately in love with you that it's quite ridiculous in fact. Just now, thinking about you, probably on your way back home, I find myself wanting nothing more but to kiss you for a very, very long time. _

_ I know this isn't something you enjoy, celebrations, but this evening can be just like any other. We'll just have snow, lights and gifts as a bonus. And so much more, love. _

_ So let me end this letter by saying once again how lucky I feel every time I wake up next to you, and that I wish nothing more but to spend many more Christmases with you. _

_ Yours, _

_ John. _

 

“You weren't supposed to read that now.”

Sherlock looks up sharply at John, now standing in front of him, already undressed except for his pants. 

“That was part of your gifts,” John continues, but he's smiling and Sherlock is up on his feet in no time.

“You know perfectly well I'm not good at waiting,” Sherlock replies, setting the letter back on his chair slowly. “Especially gifts like this one.”

“You liked it?” John asks, actually sounding hesitant.

“I did,” Sherlock smiles, leaning down for a kiss. “I do.”


	8. Warming up

Melting into yet another breathtaking kiss, John slides both arms around Sherlock’s naked torso, slowly walking backward to the bathroom. He feels Sherlock smile against this lips, his own hands already sliding up and down his back and stopping on his arse.

“I would have liked it better if you were already naked,” Sherlock grins, making John roll his eyes.

“I’m sure you would have, yes,” John laughs, having managed to get them both to the door. “But you’re the one who still has their trousers on.”

“And what are you doing about that, John?”

With another laugh, John gets to work on the said trousers quickly, pushing them and the pants both down and pulling away to appreciate the sight of a naked and, oh, already aroused Sherlock. “Now,” he smiles, “that’s promising.”

“It’s your fault really,” Sherlock says, walking past him and into the bathroom.

John hurries to join him, losing his own pants on the way, and climbing into the bath after him. He settles against Sherlock’s chest with a happy sigh, shifting until he’s content with his current position and grabs both of Sherlock’s hands, placing them on his stomach, “Here.”

“Warming up alright?” Sherlock asks, lips moving against John’s temple.

“Perfect,” John sighs, eyes closed. “Have I told you how much I love taking baths with you?”

“Pretty much every time we do, yes,” Sherlock replies, the smile obvious in his voice.

“Good.”

Sherlock chuckles behind him, “So, what have you planned for us next?

John pretends to consider the question for a moment before saying, “First of all, we’re going to have to do something about that thing poking at my arse.”

“I was hoping you’d say that,” Sherlock replies, moaning when John rubs his lower body slowly.

John laughs softly, turning his head just enough to capture Sherlock’s lips for another kiss. He swallows his gasp when he finally manage to close one hand around his erection, stroking slowly. Sherlock’s sensitivity had been an amazing surprise, the lightest touch eliciting the most delicious sounds from him, and John had soon learned he would never get enough of it.

He turns around a bit more to kiss down Sherlock’s jaw and neck, teeth grazing just the way he knows Sherlock loves it, and he can’t help but groan when he feels Sherlock’s hands descend lower down his chest. “Yes,” he pants, having gone from merely interested to achingly hard in just seconds.

Sherlock doesn’t waste any time, and John accepts that this is going to be ridiculously quick the moment he begins to stroke him. “Fuck,” he moans, the water splashing on the floor when he turns to properly face Sherlock. He straddles his lap quickly, recapturing Sherlock’s lips just as he lets him close his hand around them both.

“John,” Sherlock pants, eyes wide and breath short.

“Christ, I love you,” John moans, rocking into his hand. “I love you.”

Sherlock’s entire body arches as he begins to come, and John continues to thrust into his stilled hand, chasing his own orgasm desperately. By the time he comes back to himself, Sherlock is shivering in his arms, and John kisses his neck softly. He loves him this way, not quite back yet, still shattered and shaking.

“I do too,” Sherlock finally says, sliding both arms around him to bring them closer. “Love you.”

“I know,” John breathes, and just for a second, finds himself wishing they could just remain there. 


	9. Wrapped up

Sherlock isn’t sure how long they remain in the bath, John insisted on changing the water while Sherlock couldn’t have cared less. As long as John was back against him, settled between his legs and his head resting on his shoulder, everything was more than fine.

“Is it how you imagined it?” John asks suddenly, eyes closed and two fingers tracing patterns on Sherlock’s knee.

“What?” Sherlock repliés before adding with a smile, “Sex with you in a bath?”

“No,” John laughs, shaking his head. “Our first Christmas as a couple.”

“Oh,” Sherlock breathes, considering his next words for a long moment. “I’ve imagined quite a lot of things during all these years, but not much about holidays.”

“Not even once?”

Sherlock lets out a deep breath, closing his own eyes and saying, “There was the time when I was in Serbia. After several days in a cell, I found myself imagining what you could be doing, and it happened to be Christmas time.”

John tenses in his arms, and Sherlock holds him tighter. He knows how much John hates talking about all that happened while he was away, and it took them hours to properly talk about it all after they got together. But Sherlock knows that John would hate even more if he kept it all for himself still, the two of them having agreed early on that this would only work if they were entirely honest with the other.

“What did you imagine?” John asks finally, relaxing just a little.

“I wondered if you were still at Baker Street,” Sherlock begins, eyes still closed. “I decided that you were, that’s where we would have stayed if I were with you.” He paused, breathing out slowly. “I thought about you, in your chair or in the kitchen. I thought about what you’d insist on cooking, what I would say to make you roll your eyes and sigh.”

“You do that all too well,” John smiles. “What else?”

“I thought about the Christmas dinner.”

“You mean the one you missed today?”

“Not my fault,” Sherlock replies with a chuckle. “But yes, I thought about dinner and all we could talk about, and eventually it lead to me confessing a lot more than originally planned, obviously.”

John turns, and Sherlock opens his eyes to find him looking back, “And I obviously confessed it all too.”

“You did, yes, which made it all even worse,” Sherlock replies, “knowing it was all a fantasy. That you were probably somewhere else entirely and I was locked in that cell.”

John raises himself up to kiss him, letting their lips meet and part for a long moment before whispering, “Nothing could have been better than the Christmas we’re having right now.”

“That’s your recent orgasm talking,” Sherlock smiles, brushing their noses together.

“Maybe,” John laughs. “Maybe it’s just your irresistible charm.”

“That too, obviously.”

“And your punctuality, of course,” John adds.

Sherlock is now certain he’s grinning from ear to ear, “Not to forget my sense of romance, no matter the weather.”

John laughs, and laughs again, and Sherlock tastes the sound directly from his lips.


	10. Food and Drink

It takes a long minute for John to notice the sound of Sherlock’s stomach growling. He pulls away from his lips, grinning, “Hungry?”

Sherlock rolls his eyes, “I didn’t had any dinner, if you recall.”

John licks his lips, teeth grazing at the lower one, before pulling completely away, “Come on, let’s get out of here. I’ve kept some leftovers for you.”

“If we must,” Sherlock replies, stretching ever so slowly and John can’t help but stare.

“You tease,” he breathes, shaking his head.

“Said the man who just stroked me to orgam,” Sherlock smiles, following him out of the bath and taking the towel from his hand. “What did you cooked, then?”

“I had it all prepared,” John replies, already cleaning the bathroom mirror with one hand and staring at his own reflection. “Entrée first, some of that Foie Gras you love so much since we had some at Mycroft’s party.”

“I do no love it,” Sherlock protests, moving him out of the way.

“Right, you don’t,” John smiles, putting the towel down and reaching for his pajamas pants. He puts them one without missing Sherlock’s eyes on him as he does, “Still, I have some left for you. Plus roasted chicken and potatoes with that special sauce your mom told me about.”

“Oh,” Sherlock exclaims, a bright smile on his lips now. “Now I’m definitely hungry.”

“Thought so,” John replies, pinching his arse as he leaves the room. “Hurry up, I’ll get everything ready.”

He goes to the fridge directly, getting everything he needs and putting them down the table. He sets on plate for Sherlock and wine glasses for them both. Just as he’s about to reheat the chicken and potatoes, Sherlock joins him, sliding both arms around his waist and kissing his neck.

“I’ve missed you.”

John smiles, a too familiar warmth spreading throughout his chest. “Did you now?” Sherlock hums against his skin, holding him tighter. “The Foie Gras is waiting for you.”

“Are you eating?”

John shakes his head, “Maybe I’ll steal some from you, but I’m drinking with you.”

“I remember an evening we should have shared a glass of wine together,” Sherlock says, voice soft.

“And I remember all that happened next,” John replies, thoughts of Irene Adler always making him just a tiny bit jealous.

“I was already in love with you back then,” Sherlock says, and John turns around in his arms, sliding both hand up his back and into his hair.

“So was I.”

They stare at each other for a long moment, John having no problem understand what must be going inside Sherlock’s head right now. It doesn’t matter, all that they said or didn’t said back then.

Only now matters. Right now.

**Author's Note:**

> I know it's not December yet but since i won't have time to post in the morning, here's the first chapter two hours earlier than planned! 
> 
>  
> 
> follow me @[ggaypilot](http://ggaypilot.tumblr.com/)  
> 


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